Cross tried to block him, but Bruce went round the fellow’s feet and grabbed a corner of the bag, lying flat on his stomach just out of reach when the third baseman tried to touch him quickly. Never could any person unacquainted with the big chap fancy it possible for him to purloin a bag so handsomely. Cronin was sore with himself for giving Bruce the opportunity. He had fancied it would be an easy thing for Cross to return the ball in time to catch the runner, in case the latter attempted to take third. Merry was on the coaching line back of third. “Pretty work, Bruce!” he laughed. “You fooled them. They thought they had you.” Ready came out to bat once more. A signal passed between Wolfers and Sprowl. The latter crouched close under the bat. Wolfers put the first ball straight over. It was a beauty. Ready swung at it. Just as he did so something touched his bat lightly, deflecting it the least bit, and he missed. Jack turned quickly on Sprowl. “What are you trying to do?” he demanded, frowning, no trace of levity in his manner. “Excuse me,” said the catcher sweetly. “I was a bit too close.” “Better get back a little.” Again Wolfers put the ball over the very heart of the pan. Again Jack’s bat was tapped lightly and deflected. Ready dropped the end of his bat to the ground and stepped onto the plate to prevent Wolfers from pitching. “Mr. Umpire,” he called, “I wish you would watch this catcher. He is rather careless with his hands.” “Oh, come off!” cried Sprowl. “Don’t cry baby if you can’t hit a straight ball. It’s your own fault. Give him another, Bob. He never made a hit in his life.” Hodge had seen Wolfers deflect Ready’s bat. “Play ball!” commanded the umpire. “Get off that plate, or I’ll put the ball through you!” snarled Wolfers. “Get off, Jack,” called Hodge. “I’ll watch him. If he does the trick again, I’ll talk to him a bit.” Sprowl looked at Bart and laughed. “You wouldn’t frighten any one,” he said. “Why don’t you fellows play ball? Are you going to cry baby so early in the game?” “That’s the talk!” roared the big man. “Make ’em play ball! Of course he can’t hit Wolfers, and he wants to work his way down to first somehow.” Few among the spectators had seen Sprowl touch Jack’s bat, and therefore the crowd was opposed to him. Jeers and catcalls came from every side. Ready was angry. For once in his life, he had quite lost control of his temper. “If you keep it up,” he growled to Sprowl, “something will happen to you.” Then he stepped off the plate and Wolfers snapped the ball over like a flash. “Str-r-r-rike—kah three!” cried the umpire. “You’re out!” How the crowd did laugh and jeer at Jack. “That’s what you get for crying baby!” yelled a shrill voice. “It will be Mr. Sprowl’s turn to bat in a moment!” said Hodge, as he picked up the body protector. Frank heard these words. “None of that kind of business, Bart,” he said grimly. “It won’t do. We’re not playing that sort of a game.”